


Mistletoe and Misbehaviour

by Joodiff



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Mistletoe, Office Sex, PWP, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:46:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve, and Grace seems to have managed to take Boyd by surprise... Enjoy! Happy Christmas 2012!</p>
<p>
  <i>Adult content. Don't like, don't read.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe and Misbehaviour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ScriptionAddict](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriptionAddict/gifts).



> A little Christmas fun and frolics with Boyd and Grace, written as my end of a deal with ScriptionAddict. :D

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

**A/N:** _Happy Xmas 2012!_

* * *

 

**Mistletoe and Misbehaviour**

by Joodiff

* * *

 

Dichotomy. One Boyd is struggling with. _Really_ struggling with.

The contradiction between who and what she is _perceived_ to be and who and what she is apparently _capable_ of being.

It’s not about _him_ , it’s about _her_. He knows _exactly_ what he is, after all. He’s a thoroughly red-blooded male with a libido every bit as robust and healthy as his truly impressive ego. Sure, he’s not as young as he used to be, but he’s firmly convinced that he’s every bit as enthusiastic and adaptable as he always was, and…

But none of that matters. What _actually_ matters is trying to come to terms with what’s happening as quickly as possible. Before things go catastrophically wrong. Which they unquestionably will, given half a chance.

Yes, he’s a cynic.

A cynic with a very respectable hard-on.

Fuck.

What the _hell_ is she trying to do to him?

Stupid bloody question. It’s blatantly obvious what’s she’s trying – successfully – to do to him. And Boyd has an idea that if he’s a very good boy, he might be about to get an early and completely unexpected Christmas present. And if Grace is a very bad _girl_ – which she currently seems to be managing extremely well – she might be getting one, too. Christmas present, that is. Quite a large one, even if he does say so himself.

It’s all going to go horribly wrong, he just knows it. It always does, where they’re concerned. If something doesn’t abruptly happen to shatter the thrilling and completely unanticipated moment completely, he’ll be very surprised indeed. And even if something _doesn’t_ , he can practically guarantee that sooner or later he’s going to say something so crass and so monumentally stupid that Grace will flounce off leaving him to gloomily kick himself for at least the next six months. Repeatedly and extremely hard.

Anyway. The dichotomy, the contradiction. That’s what Boyd needs to get his head round – and rapidly. Maybe he just needs to challenge his own perceptions. Or some such bollocks. Or maybe he just needs to simply accept that Grace Foley, she of the imperturbable calm, the quiet dignity and the sparkling blue eyes, has well and truly jumped on him. In his office. On Christmas Eve. Accept it and embrace it. So to speak.

Though he does feel a _little_ as if he’s being forcibly grappled rather than tenderly embraced. Which is not entirely how he would have predicted such a situation unfolding, but if his psyche is still having a little trouble with the concept, other rather less cerebral parts of him have definitely risen magnificently to the challenge.

Happy Christmas, Peter.

Well, quite.

It appears that Grace is taking some serious liberties with his person. Extraordinarily tactile, some of them. And interesting. _Very_ interesting.

The phone’s going to ring. Either that, or half the team are suddenly going to return and come trooping through his door having abruptly remembered something that couldn’t _possibly_ wait until after Boxing Day. _Something_ unfortunate’s going to happen, anyway, because there’s just no way –

“You look like a rabbit caught in the headlights,” Grace says abruptly.

Oh, look; and here it comes – the entirely predictable disaster. Heading straight for him like a herd of stampeding wildebeest.

Whatever he says now, Boyd is utterly doomed. He’s actually strangely philosophical about it. In a depressingly short space of time he’s quite certain the CCU’s dreary basement headquarters will be echoing to the sound of doors being loudly and irritably slammed. And then, once Grace has swept out in high dudgeon and he’s quietly licked his wounds for a few minutes, he’ll slope off home on his own and spend the rest of the festive season despondently wondering how one man – one genuinely well-intentioned man – can _possibly_ be so damned unlucky.

The only answer is to say nothing at all. And the only realistic way to achieve that is to kiss her. So he does. And is once again startled by the ferocity he encounters. Forget meek and mild, it seems the damned woman’s quite prepared to eat him alive. _And_ spit out the bones afterwards. It’s quite a revelation. One that does nothing to alleviate the raging hard-on that’s starting to become something of a genuinely uncomfortable problem. And the small but very determined hand that’s once again taking the kinds of liberties that should surely incur some serious disciplinary action doesn’t help much, either.

He _can’t_ be this lucky. It’s just not feasible.

He hopes she knows exactly what it _is_ she’s now blatantly caressing through the ludicrously expensive tailoring. Could be extremely embarrassing for both parties otherwise.

Oh, who the hell’s he trying to kid? She knows _exactly_ what she’s doing. _And_ exactly what she’s fondling.

Good.

It vaguely occurs to Boyd that locking his office door might now be something of a prudent move. Not to mention closing the privacy blinds. It’s a safe bet that there’s absolutely _no-one_ on the payroll who wants to accidentally witness what he’s beginning to fervently hope is going to be happening in a fairly short space of time.

Grace bites his throat harder than he expects, which at least brings his physical focus back above his navel. Briefly. He makes an involuntary answering noise that he prefers to imagine sounds rather more masculine and predatory than he suspects it actually does. It has the desired effect, however, because Grace looks up at him.

Well, _damn_. Damn bloody fuck.

She’s laughing at him. Not aloud, maybe, but Boyd can clearly see amusement dancing in her eyes.

This time he really does growl. And since his voice is naturally in the lower baritone range and he is actually concentrating, the sound is pleasingly gruff and throaty. Male. Threatening.

Grace does not look threatened. Not at all.

He’s had enough. Boyd is moving before it dawns on him that he’s undoubtedly doing exactly what she wants him to do. But by then it doesn’t matter. Since Grace doesn’t weigh very much and he has always stubbornly refused to entertain the notion that he might _not_ be quite as strong as the much-fabled ox, she’s seated on the very edge of his desk before she can even think of protesting. Though, truth be known, she doesn’t look much like a woman who currently has any inclination to protest about anything. In fact, she is smirking knowingly at him. Of _course_ she is.

Maybe there’s an outside chance things _aren’t_ going to suddenly go horrendously wrong. Maybe there’s the tiniest possibility that it might – finally – be his lucky day. Night. Evening. Whatever.

Boyd kisses her again, and this time the response is just as keen but nowhere near as defiant. He notes the change. It intrigues him, urges him to be a little more exploratory, a little more mischievous. The approach seems to work for Grace, if the way her fingers tighten on his shoulders and her tongue tangles ardently with his is any gauge of such things. Any doubt about it disappears as he feels the artful fingers of her other hand begin to wander again. The primal shock that goes up and down Boyd’s spine as she finds and traces the hard length of him through the fabric of his trousers is genuinely extraordinary.

Half of him is still ruefully waiting for the impending calamity that’s going to leave him growling in frustration. For weeks, no doubt.

“Relax,” Grace murmurs in his ear.

Some bloody hope of _that_. Tactless as ever, he snorts and mutters, “As if…”

She nips his earlobe. “Oh, you haven’t _completely_ lost the power of speech, then?”

He probably does owe her an apology, at that, given that he hasn’t managed a single coherent sentence since she first marched into his office shamelessly waving a ridiculously cheap sprig of plastic mistletoe. And then proceeded to wreak absolute havoc on every last one of his now thoroughly battered senses. Against her neck, he mutters a wry, “Sorry.”

“Close your eyes,” Grace tells him softly.

Seriously? He’d rather walk into a lion’s den. Stark-bollock naked. Carrying a couple of pounds of juicy rump steak. He has the distinct feeling it would be a considerably safer action. But there’s something very seductive about the husky note of promise in her voice. So he reluctantly shuts his eyes and hopes he’s not making the kind of mistake he’ll live to bitterly regret. The eminent Doctor Foley is not always altogether _entirely_ trustworthy. Not when she’s got the devil in her. Which she most assuredly has tonight.

He jumps. Oh. The _subtle_ approach.

His zip easily conquered, she seems to be trying to…

And succeeding, obviously.

This – inevitably – has just _got_ to be the moment when someone comes barging loudly into his office. Just when his dick is finally free from its increasingly-tight prison and is standing gallantly to attention for her.

Nothing happens.

There’s still plenty of nothing happening in the way of complete disaster when her fingers close snugly round him. And then Boyd discovers he doesn’t really care if half of New Scotland Yard suddenly march in uninvited. Up to and including Maureen Smith who would dearly love to catch him in a position even _half_ as compromising.

He jumps again. Can’t help it.

Jesus fucking _Christ_ …

Which roughly translates to: yeah, Grace seems to know what she’s doing. She really, _really_ does.

Rebelliously, he opens his eyes. That’s _not_ the mistake. The mistake is looking down to _see_ what she’s doing. Not that he doesn’t already know, but… Anyway, it’s a mistake. A _big_ mistake. The sight of her hand curled so tightly and expertly around him is infinitely more erotic than anything Boyd’s seen for a long, long time – and suddenly he’s incredibly glad he’s _not_ as young as he once was. As it is, he can’t suppress the guttural moan that makes her smirk again. And carry on regardless.

Santa won’t be coming for Grace this year, given how very naughty she’s being, but someone else assuredly _will_. And pretty damned soon if he doesn’t take prompt and decisive action to prevent it. Instinctively, Boyd clamps a hand around her wrist, stopping the sliding, maddening friction that’s doing the kind of things for him that just recently he’s grown rather too used to grudgingly doing for himself. It astonishes him how tiny her wrist is. Gracile. Oh, good play on words, Peter. Well done.

“Enough,” he growls at her, but gently. “Jesus, Grace…”

The startling blue eyes are full of mischief. And not just mischief. There’s need there, too, and something that’s affectionate and hungry and improbably wise.

It hits Boyd like a hammer, the complicated mix of things he sees in her eyes.

He is not a man for words. Isn’t skilled with them, can’t make them dance the way she can. But he knows what to say now. And he doesn’t hesitate to say it. “God, I want you.”

He sees it. The answering joy and relief. The intense desire.

It’s all so fucking wonderful.

He’s on her in a heartbeat, his hands searching quickly and impatiently, his lips on her neck, her throat – and now it’s Grace who moans, her just-released hand determinedly stroking him again; but that’s okay. It’s fine. Boyd is now where he wants to be, where he needs to be, firmly locked into the tenacious self-control he’s doggedly mastered over decades of eager sexual adventuring.

Her breath is warm and quick against his neck. He likes it. He likes the concentrated scent of her, too, a potent mix of the natural and the artificial that punches straight through his skull to his limbic system. One hand is exploring the sensuous curve between her waist and hip, the other the heavy fullness of her breast. It’s sensation after sensation, the taste, touch and smell of her, all so new and yet somehow all so incredibly familiar. He’s had her so many times in his dreams. So very many times…

It’s Grace who mumbles hoarsely, “Peter… the door…”

Boyd doesn’t care about the damned door. Not anymore. It’s Christmas Eve, for fuck’s sake, and it’s late; no-one else is going to be visiting the basement tonight. He can feel the tension in her, though, and recognises it for what it is – apprehension, not excitement. He’s not going to risk sabotaging himself now. Not for the sake of just a moment’s effort. He reluctantly pulls away from her, some innate but unconscious sense of decorum making him stuff himself painfully back into his trousers as he turns towards the door. It doesn’t make much difference – sure, his dick’s no longer blatantly exposed for all the world and its wife to see, but the blindingly obvious bulge in his trousers is… well, blindingly bloody obvious.

Impatiently, he closes the door and turns the lock. Only a master key – or brute force – will allow outside interference now. Before Grace can even suggest it, he hurriedly closes the blinds, too, and suddenly their world becomes a small and bizarrely intimate place. It should concern him that they’re evidently about to break the most fundamental of all the rules, but it doesn’t. He has other things on his mind. The light from his desk lamp is soft, its character very different now that it isn’t augmented by the much harsher light from the squad room beyond.

Christ, but she’s beautiful.

She really is. In a way Boyd couldn’t even begin to articulate. Not despite her age, but _because_ of it. And as he realises that, he begins to understand just how jaded he’s become. How incredibly immune to the brazen charms of the pretty young women he used to pursue so diligently. He can’t think of one of them who in any way compares to her.

What the _hell_ has she done to him? What infernal spell has she cast over him?

He told her the absolute truth – he wants her. He _really_ wants her. And not just for now, not just for tonight.

It could be so seedy, what they’re doing. Fumbling their way towards a quick, opportunist fuck on his desk in the middle of the damned night.

It’s not. Not at all. It means too much. Perhaps it’s that simple. Perhaps _all_ of it is that simple.

Boyd prowls back to her, the dark, lascivious fire still blazing through him, but its raw aggression is tempered with something now. Something that feels a lot like…

He grasps her shoulders and kisses her hard. Wants her to feel it. Makes her feel it. The elemental truth at the heart of him. The fear, the frustration, the love, the lust. The confusion, the anger. The pain. The joy. Everything he’s ever thought or felt about her; the good, the bad and the downright ugly. All of it condensed into one truth. One truth that he’ll _never_ be able to properly express using mere words, no matter how long she patiently waits.

Grace nips his bottom lip. He doesn’t notice the pain, only the resulting jolt that goes through his entire body but centres in his groin. He’s so hard; so desperately hard. The biological imperative to simply take her is almost overwhelming in its intensity, and perhaps she understands, because suddenly her hands are moving. This time it’s his clothing they’re seeking. Boyd’s jacket is off his shoulders and sliding to the floor almost before he knows it, her fingers moving rapidly to the buttons of his shirt.

So be it. He follows her example, reaching for her, finding his way through the layers, discarding what he can, impatiently circumnavigating whatever offers anything more than token resistance. Undoubtedly she won’t take kindly to having the clothes literally ripped off her back, however turned-on she is. And she _is_ turned-on. Undeniably. The tigress is back, and – God help him – he’s more than happy to feel her claws as she roughly divests him of his shirt.

Boyd has found bare skin, too. Skin that’s warm, fragrant and impossibly soft. He kisses what he can, delights in making her shiver and dig her fingers hard into his shoulders. Throat, chest, breasts; everything he can find with his lips, he kisses. Her nipples are sharp, hard points and he gets lost in sucking and licking and mouthing, barely aware of the way her breath hisses out as she presses herself tight against him.

He’s going to have her.

After so many years, so many fights and misunderstanding, after so many tragedies, near-misses and wasted opportunities, he is _finally_ going to have her.

“Not here,” Grace murmurs urgently, her voice hoarse.

The world temporarily seems to come to a shuddering stop.

What the…?

No. No, no, no. _No_. Oh, sodding bloody bastard hell… Seriously?

It’s a foregone conclusion that Boyd will speak long before he thinks. And he does. “You’re fucking kidding me?”

Just a bit too vehement, apparently. Grace frowns at him.

Couldn’t things go his bloody way just for _once…_?

Well, no. Obviously not.

It takes more willpower than Boyd has ever realised he has to simply gaze incredulously at her and growl, “It’s Christmas Eve, we’re half-naked, I’m so fucking hard it hurts… and you’ve _changed your bloody mind_ …? Great timing, Grace. _Terrific_ timing.”

“I meant,” she tells him, arctic frost quite evident in her tone, “not here on the _desk_.”

He stares at her in disbelief. “What?”

“I’m not having sex with you on your desk.”

Boyd doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He really doesn’t. Unsurprisingly, he does neither. He gestures impatiently at the space around them. “Couch? Chair? Up against the bloody wall? _On_ the desk, _over_ the desk, on-the-fucking- _floor_ – it really doesn’t matter… For the love of God, woman, I’m begging you here… just pick one.”

She smirks, her impudent sense of humour clearly firmly back in place. “Only one? I’m disappointed, Boyd. I’ve always imagined you to be _far_ more enterprising than _that_.”

He glares down at her. “If I wasn’t a gentleman…”

“If I wasn’t a lady…” she counters promptly – and yes, as she pointedly looks down and then up again, the wicked glint of mischief is back in her eyes.

The none-too-subtle subtle implication has a profound effect on Boyd. On _all_ of him, not just on the refractory captive still standing expectantly to attention. He can’t help momentarily fixating on her mouth, on her lips. It’s not at all good for his heart rate. Forcing himself to lift his gaze and maintain eye contact, he says mournfully, “Right now I _really_ wish you weren’t.”

One perfectly sculpted eyebrow raises a tiny fraction. _Coquettish_ isn’t quite the right word, but he honestly can’t think of a better one to describe her as she asks archly, “Oh…?”

Images from one or two restless and particularly vivid dreams flash through his mind. In brilliant Technicolor. Boyd shakes his head slowly. “You don’t want to know.”

Her expression is amused but also a little cagey. “You’d be surprised.”

Forcing himself not to swallow hard, he says, “Don’t shatter my illusions, Grace.”

“Not for one single moment do I believe you’re _that_ naïve, Boyd,” she chides him. “But if it makes you happy…”

Boyd can read between the lines with the best of them. And the visions he conjures there don’t help his racing heart much, either. He grinds his teeth, barely aware of doing so. Takes a deep breath. Exhales slowly. With remarkable calm, he says, “I have a question...”

“Yes?”

“Am I likely to be getting my rocks off any time soon?”

He sees the twitch of a smile, even though it is quickly hidden. _Infuriating_ woman.

And because she is so incredibly exasperating, Grace appears to consider the question solemnly and at length. While Boyd seriously considers strangling her. Not for the first time tonight, either. The lengthy pause is the silent equivalent of fingernails screeching slowly and deliberately down a chalkboard. Eventually she says reflectively, “I’d say it was a distinct possibility.”

What the _hell_ does he see in her anyway? She’s driven him bloody mad for years with her idiosyncratic habits and her complicated theories, not to mention her complete inability to use less than two dozen words when one would do just fine. Oh, and the perpetually-galling fact that despite there not being very many years between them in age, she has a pronounced tendency to address him as if he were a disobedient schoolboy not a senior detective in sole command of a highly-specialised investigative unit.

What _is_ it about her…?

Whatever it is, it’s almost certainly responsible for the recent lack of casual and entertaining female companionship in his bedroom.

Because nowadays the only woman he wants is _her_.

Boyd’s intention is to take her by surprise, and he succeeds, kissing her quickly and hotly before taking hold her hand and drawing her off the desk. There’s no resistance as he leads her the few short paces to the low couch at the edge of the room. None as he settles and draws her down next to him. The gentle, wise eyes are warm and fond, and they study him with a quiet intensity that speaks of a need that’s perhaps not as fierce as his, but is every bit as sincere.

Grace reaches out. Her fingertips are soft and cool on his cheek, yet Boyd feels their presence like a brand. He turns his head, gently kisses her palm. Hears her breathing catch. Those fingertips are moving, drawing tiny patterns on his skin as they explore, lingering on the angular point of his cheekbone before moving downwards; finding every tiny imperfection along the way. He watches her, quietly astonished by how intensely sensual the experience is. The friction increases slightly as her fingers encounter coarse evening stubble. He clears his throat to gruffly apologise, but Grace shakes her head slightly, somehow understanding, and her exploration moves to the longer, softer whiskers of his beard. Boyd briefly wonders what she’s thinking, but then her fingertips are on his lips, softly but purposefully tracing their outline… and the same fierce primal shock as before slams simultaneously into his spine and his groin, instantly erasing everything but the overwhelming need to have her. Now.

He’s a big man, not built for gymnastics, but there’s certainly dexterity in the way he twists himself away from the couch and drops onto his knees in front of her. The floor is hard, the impact jarring, but Boyd barely notices. His attention is all on Grace, his hands grasping her hips to pull her towards him. The atmosphere in the office has changed, lust once again overtaking humour as they clumsily fumble themselves free of the last articles of clothing that could form a barrier. As she squirms free of her knickers, his belt buckle hits the floor with a metallic clatter. He doesn’t have a chance to worry about his trunks – she hooks her fingers into the wide elastic waistband and tugs firmly downwards, his cock springing free to jut forward like a bowsprit.

He doesn’t think he can get any harder. Not until Grace closes her fingers around him again.

Instinctively, they lean towards each other, lips and tongues meeting fiercely, hungrily. He quickly slides his palm up her naked thigh, feels her shiver and tighten her grip. The sensory feedback from his mouth, his fingers, his cock, is extraordinary. A swirling amalgam of complementary sensations, each very distinct yet perfectly blended with the others. Not remotely under his conscious control, his focus jumps rapidly between them. The wonderful warm friction of her hand, the delicate, moist flesh beneath his fingers, the hungry mouth on his.

All Boyd’s senses are fully engaged. The heavy sound of panting, the lingering taste of red wine, the thick animal scent that’s partly his, partly hers; the hot tightness that eagerly welcomes his exploration; the wild intensity in her eyes. Every single sense screaming messages straight into his brain.

Behind him, the telephone on his desk starts to shrill, the sound unpleasantly loud and strident.

So stupidly predictable it’s not even funny.

No chance. No fucking _chance_.

Really. There’s _more_ chance of him deciding that now is absolutely the right time to finish yesterday’s cryptic crossword in _The Times_.

…And what the _fuck_ is six down, anyway?

“Leave it,” Grace rasps, pulling back a moment then burying her face against his neck.

As if he was seriously contemplating doing anything else.

Boyd can’t wait any longer. Seizing her hips, he pulls her even closer, and as he feels the extraordinary shock of his hardness finally meeting her softness, he hears her groan as she feels the same thing. So elemental, so primitive. So basic. Feels so damned _good_ , and he’s not even inside her yet. He grinds himself against her, flesh on flesh, a touch of arrogant masculinity wanting her to fully appreciate the size of him, the hardness of him.

She bites his neck. Hard.

And the damned telephone is still ringing.

He shifts his hips, aligning himself, and he bears down, using his weight to push slowly into her. He genuinely intends to go steadily; gently, even. To edge his way into her inch by inch, but Grace obviously has other ideas. Her hips move, too, and she raises her legs, hooking them round his waist as she attempts to pull him into her. It’s about as blatant as it’s possible to be, and any lingering fanciful notions Boyd might have about her as an acquiescent, demure sort lover abruptly shatter into a thousand crazy shards of utter nonsense. This is _not_ a woman primly surrendering her virtue – this is a woman who knows _exactly_ what she wants and fully intends to get it.

Fuck, yeah. He wins. He _finally_ wins. Not against her, but against the irritating fates and their cruel sense of humour.

Take that, Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Yeah.

The benefits of a classical education.

For once in his life, he’s one _very_ lucky boy.

He slams into her just about as hard as he can, and Grace screams. She literally screams – and not from pain.

_Definitely_ not from pain.

It’s worth the build-up. Worth every last moment of frustration. She’s so hot and so tight, and she wants him. Wants _him_. Boyd starts to thrust, quickly finds himself picking up the pace as she moans and mumbles and digs her fingernails into his back. Faster, harder, deeper; she seems to want it all, and that’s fine by him. _More_ than fine. He surrenders to animal instinct – his _and_ hers – and he certainly doesn’t notice when the telephone finally stops its impatient summons.

His body is ruthlessly following instinct, but his mind is travelling along a more metaphysical path – lost in concepts of him and her, of what it is to become part of her, to be briefly but completely subsumed by her. Sensation and emotion wind themselves fiercely together until they are almost indistinguishable, and all the time the deep pressure in his groin is building, his aching balls drawn up tight as he drives into her, all-but knocking the breath out of her with every fast, urgent thrust.

He’s grinding his teeth again, but Boyd doesn’t know it. He’s oblivious to so much; to the sweat beading on his brow and breaking out across his back, to the muscles in his neck bulging under tension. Oblivious to the way Grace is panting and gripping his shoulders hard. He’s not even trying to maintain any self-control; not now. All sensitivity, all empathy has been stripped away from him. Boyd is just a rutting male animal pounding his way towards release.

A high, keening noise breaks through the haze of lust and instinct.

Grace.

He focuses instantly. And is stunned. _Amazed_.

She is _there_. Her thighs are shaking, her back is arched and her eyes are tightly closed as she cries out. He can feel the fierce internal contractions of her body, and if the _sight_ of her wasn’t enough, that primitive wonderful sensation just about finishes it for him. She comes… magnificently. Triumphantly; her body hungrily working his for every last shivering iota of pleasure it can get.

That’s it for Boyd. The inexorable moment when nothing, but nothing, can stop the inevitable. He roars and hits the peak just as Grace begins to calm, his cock jerking hard inside her with every acute spasm. He feels as if he is nothing but cock and balls and liquid fire. Has no knowledge of anything else, no insight into anything else. He doesn’t hear himself growling, doesn’t feel himself making the last few hard shuddering thrusts into her. Definitely doesn’t feel himself crash forwards onto her as the infernal pressure is replaced by a desperate sensitivity that for a few moments is every bit as agonising as it is pleasant.

Fucking _hell_ …

His heart is hammering wildly in his chest. That’s the first thing he’s really aware of.

He’s _had_ her. Finally.

Reality. Not just a sweaty midnight dream in the lonely privacy of his bedroom.

Her fingers are stoking gently and rhythmically trough his hair. That’s the second physical thing that Boyd slowly registers.

And it feels pretty damn good, too.

“All right?” Grace asks softly, close to his ear.

_She’s_ asking _him_ …?

A touch of post-coital embarrassment makes him clear his throat unnecessarily. “Yeah… You?”

She chuckles so softly he feels it almost more than he hears it. “Oh, I’m fine.”

_Fine_ …? Great accolade, Grace. Stu-bloody-pendous.

Well, what did he actually expect? Lavish praise? Lyrical assertions of the outstanding potency of his obviously quite breath-taking masculinity? Endless protestations of undying love? Though she certainly knows how much he’d hate the flagrant sentimentality of _that_.

Still… would it _really_ hurt her to gently massage his male ego a little?

Boyd finally lifts his head to look at her. There’s a distinct look of contentment about her that suddenly makes him feel very smug indeed. He doesn’t even mind that she also looks more than a little amused. _Content_ is good enough for him. More than good enough.

It finally dawns on him how damn much his knees are hurting. The tough industrial-use carpet in his office doesn’t offer much in the way of padding, and the concrete floor beneath it is brutally hard. His back’s aching, too, the old injury grumbling bad-temperedly. No doubt about it, getting old is a barrel of laughs. He straightens up a little, trying to ease the discomfort. The desperate tension’s gone, and he’s able to look at her a little more objectively. She looks like a woman who’s been… well… well-and-truly fucked, to be perfectly blunt. And it’s a good look; one that he instantly decides suits her.

Her blouse is hanging open, her bra is displaced – both entirely his fault – and for the very first time Boyd actually registers the scar on the side of her breast. Three, four inches long. Recent, but already fading. Lumpectomy. Skilful surgeon, though. Give it a few more months and it won’t be very noticeable at all. Only, he assumes, to Grace. He stares at it for a moment, but he doesn’t see a flaw, an ugly imperfection. He sees a mark of honour. A badge of courage. Evidence of a hard battle fought and won.

Perfect clarity.

He _understands_.

Understands _them_. Understands that every step taken over the last few months has brought them to this moment. Understands that this is about so much more than lust and physical attraction. Understands that tonight they have made a pact. One neither of them will easily break.

Boyd lowers his head, feels Grace flinch slightly as he gently kisses the scar. Her fingers tighten in his hair for a moment, then relax.

Acceptance. Hers.

The answer doesn’t matter, but against her skin, he asks, “Why tonight?”

Her fingers resume their languid motion, stroking and combing. “Seemed like too good an opportunity to miss, I suppose. You can blame Kat for the mistletoe – she forgot to take it with her when she left.”

Her cleavage is a very comfortable place to rest, even if his knees are screaming at him. He nuzzles lazily against her, thoroughly enjoying the warmth and softness of her skin. “That bit of cheap plastic crap is _not_ mistletoe, Grace.”

“Served its purpose, though, didn’t it?”

Deadpan, he says, “You really didn’t have to jump me, you know. A good bottle of wine and a spot of flirtation would have done the trick.”

Her fingers have found the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Her touch makes him shiver slightly as she says dryly, “I wasn’t prepared to run the risk.”

“Of me being far too dense to figure out what you were up to?”

“Exactly.”

He smiles against her skin. “Fair enough.”

There are several long, languorous moments of silence before she says, “Boyd…?”

He stirs enough to mutter an answering, “Hmm?”

“This isn’t terribly comfortable, you know.”

She’s right. His back has stopped complaining, but his knees are threatening to never forgive him. He thinks it’s going to hurt like an absolute bastard when he tries to stand up. “You think _you’re_ uncomfortable… my fucking knees are shot.”

“We should move,” Grace prompts.

Good idea in theory. Not so good in practise, maybe. “It’ll be messy...”

She makes a disapproving noise and complains, “Thank you _so_ much for that unnecessary insight, Boyd.”

“It’s _my_ couch that’s going to suffer.”

“Stop it. _Honestly_.”

Boyd really isn’t terribly inclined to release his grip. He’s softened inside her, but the physical connection is still there, and he knows that the slightest move will break it. No, he really does _not_ want to let go.

Ever again, in fact.

He ignores the scar, kisses the smooth swell of flesh. It’s Christmas Eve, his knees are hurting like a bitch and he thinks he’d gladly kill someone for the chance of a cold beer. And life could be one hell of a lot worse.

“Take me home with you,” he says abruptly, gently kissing her breast again.

There’s a loaded pause. One that is followed by, “You’re not house-trained, Boyd.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says indolently. When she doesn’t comment, he adds, “No-one should be on their own at this time of year, Grace.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” she says, her tone suggesting she’d rather banter than risk the pain of a potentially catastrophic misunderstanding.

But he’s absolutely serious. The words spoken almost on a whim have already taken root. Looking up at her, he says quietly, “I mean it. Take me home.”

Her eyes seem to search his face for something. “Why?”

It’s in his nature to be brusque. Straightforward. He shrugs and drops his head against her shoulder. “Because you love me? Because _I_ love _you_? Because we’ve fucked about for far too long? Because it’s bloody Christmas? How many reasons do you need?”

He hears her take a deep breath. “Do you know what you’re saying, Peter? What you’re _really_ saying?”

“Yes, Grace,” he says gravely. “It’s most _definitely_ Christmas.”

She tugs on his hair, forcing him to raise his head. When he does, she says, “All right. But if you chew my furniture or disgrace yourself on my carpet…”

It’s going to be all right. Somehow, after all this time and against all the odds, it’s going to be all right.

He wins. _They_ win.

“You’ll chain me up in the garden?” he suggests.

“Maybe not in the _garden_ …” Grace says slyly.

He smirks. Leans in to kiss her gently. “Happy Christmas, Grace.”

She strokes his hair again for a moment. “I think it just might be, don’t you?”

He does.

And, by God, if anyone deserves it, they do.

_\- the end -_


End file.
